


Whatever the opposite of a Cabin Fic is

by MidKnight2501



Category: Gods Of Egypt (2016)
Genre: Creeper, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-04
Updated: 2016-03-04
Packaged: 2018-05-24 15:38:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6158423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidKnight2501/pseuds/MidKnight2501
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Horus is creeper af.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whatever the opposite of a Cabin Fic is

**Author's Note:**

> I totally failed to come up with a title, so suggest one. I'll take the best. 
> 
> Also I wrote this in literally 30 minutes, so I'm sure there's some errors left. Also I have to go see the movie again. Like 4srs. 
> 
> I mean, yeah, it deserved to die in a fire for white washing and I make no excuses about that total failure. But I was lured in by Fantasy!Egypt, intense cosplay, and CG palaces. And Ironman!Horus. 
> 
> Also I wasn't the only one who thought Horus was pretty much a douche forever right?

Bek is unsurprised when Horus leans closer beside the small fire and kisses him. He's felt the God's eye on him all the last days walking. Dark has fallen and they've made camp- though he's tried to keep his distance. Horus palms his face, just the edge of fingers catching in his hair and against his jaw- Bek jerks back, falls to the sand from the rock he'd been crouching on. 

Horus peers down at him, smug, gold tinged eye blinking slowly in the firelight. “No?” Horus asks, amused.

“No.” Bek says, from his elbows in the sand, glaring. He rubs the back of his hand across his mouth quickly. 

Horus laughs to himself, a faint rasping sound in the night. The sound drifts away to nothing and the God turns back to the fire with no interest for his companion anymore- though Bek feels that single eye watching him. He warms his massive hands against the flicker of the flames and pays Bek no mind as the mortal gets to his feet and begins brushing away the sand and grit from his knees and elbows. Pays no mind to the suspicious glares. 

They are silent until bed, when the only choice is to bundle close to the remains of the fire as the cold of night settles in hard, and wrap themselves in their cloaks. Bek keeps his eyes on the fire, ignores the gaze that crawls along his skin. 

“Come here and warm me.” Horus commands, in that tone of voice. 

Bek hunches his shoulders against the hard ground and glares at something only finger lengths from his face on the ground. 

“You keep yourself warm.” He finally bites out, fisting his hands against his sides. Zaya would say 'go'. She would go. She was always loyal, always believed. Bek does not and will not. 

Horus laughs, amused, lazy. He plays with the edge of his cloak, propped on his elbow. He needs a bowl of grapes to lazily pick at, or a servant girl to comb his hair with mindless adoration. Not a bitter, disbelieving thief who does not- will not-

“Then let me warm you.” Horus offers, indulgent. No will become yes, is his tone. 

“I am warm enough.” Bek shivers. 

Horus is still studying him, Bek discovers when he dares to glance up. His easy gaze is too free with Bek's body under the thin, patched-together robe, the barely there addition of the scarf as a blanket. Horus caresses the length of his own cloak with slow, possessive fingers. It looks thick and soft and warm. Bek looks away, quickly, but catches the edge of Horus' smirk. 

“Come here, little thief.” Horus orders him again, smirking, always smirking. It makes Bek's teeth ache with tension. “Come to me and worship.” He cajoles from across the fire, turning to bend one knee so the heavy cape falls back, baring a strongly muscled knee and thigh, the edges of his shendyt falling up and back, baring more skin to the thief's gaze. “Surely Zaya wouldn't mind, with her adoration of me.” Horus jokes. It makes Bek's teeth ache something fierce. Horus' hand falls to his chest as he leans up from elbow to palm, hand curling against his trim waist, sliding towards his hip as Bek begrudgingly watches. “Tell her how you made devotion with your own hands.” Horus continues, hand sliding slowly lower, watching Bek watch him and luxuriating in it. “Show her how I made you praise-”

Bek rolls away, turning his back on the God, who laughs loud and long enough that the sound of it rumbles faintly back to them across the plain for some minutes. There are noises behind him of the God settling down, of fabric, but Horus comes no closer. 

Bek hunches his shoulders against the cold and thinks of what Zaya would say now.


End file.
